


i'm looking for a man that'll do it anywhere

by fakefish



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: "footsie", Aziraphale is not innocent, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Sex, miracles are convenient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 14:59:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19298095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakefish/pseuds/fakefish
Summary: Aziraphale cocks his head, smile still innocent. “No,” he says, ever so slowly dragging his foot higher, and Crowley realizes now that he’s taken his shoe off. Aziraphale’s toes drag over Crowley’s exposed anklebone, silk socks catching on short, coarse hair. Crowley clenches his hand tight where it’s balled into a fist on the table.“Angel.”“Enjoying your meal, dear?”





	i'm looking for a man that'll do it anywhere

**Author's Note:**

> aziraphale is the nastier one out of the two of them and you can't convince me otherwise! i wrote this with an established relationship in mind, but if you read it as a first time fic it's way funnier.
> 
> title comes from the lyrics to "nasty girl" by vanity 6.

Typically, when Crowley and Aziraphale go to the Ritz, they secure the same table each time; one near the center of the room, where the light hits evenly and Crowley is free to people-watch to his heart's content. But this time, during an unusual midday lull, they are led to a table in a back corner.

Crowley is about to chalk it up to circumstance, but something that flits across Aziraphale’s face tells him it may not be random. Aziraphale starts talking before Crowley can bother to mention it, though, telling him about some first-edition poetry book he’s in the midst of an online bidding war for.

When their food arrives, Aziraphale cuts himself off from his rant on ebooks to give an appreciative once-over to the plates. “Oh, this looks wonderful.”

“Strange of you to say,” Crowley drawls. Aziraphale rolls his eyes, neglecting to respond and instead digging into his mushroom penne with a contented sigh. He’s being more blatant with his appreciation of the food than usual, ending each bite with a happy moan. Crowley watches Aziraphale’s eyes flutter shut as he licks sauce from his fork and finds himself suddenly having to adjust in his seat, newly grateful for the luxurious, full-length tablecloths the Ritz uses on every table.

“Delicious,” Aziraphale murmurs. He looks up through his eyelashes at Crowley as he gives his fork a final suck, and Crowley inhales sharply, unfortunately – or fortunately – too loud for Aziraphale to miss.

Aziraphale smiles, deceptively angelic, and shifts, and before Crowley realizes what’s happening he feels something press against his foot.

Crowley grins. “Are we playing footsie now, angel?”

Aziraphale cocks his head, smile still innocent. “No,” he says, and slowly, _slowly,_ drags his foot higher, and Crowley realizes now that he’s taken his shoe off. Aziraphale’s toes drag over Crowley’s exposed ankle bone, silk socks catching on short, coarse hair. Crowley clenches his hand tight where it’s balled into a fist on the table. He thinks he understands their placement, now.

“ _Angel._ ”

“Enjoying your meal, dear?” Aziraphale asks, voice frustratingly even. Crowley doesn’t bother glancing around to make sure they aren’t rousing any suspicion – he knows Aziraphale will have already taken care of that. Whether Crowley would call it a miracle or demonic interference, he isn’t sure.

Crowley finds his voice. “I am,” he says, as Aziraphale continues his molestation of Crowley’s anklebone. “I may still be hungry, though.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” He finally starts teasing higher, tracing along the curve of Crowley’s calf, touches feather-light and too controlled by a half. “Were you interested in getting dessert, then?”

Crowley hums. “I think that would be just fine.”

A waiter comes by to refill their glasses. Aziraphale doesn’t move his foot, and Crowley stutters on the thank-you he offers after his wine has been topped off. If the waiter notices anything strange, he doesn’t let on, departing with a bland nod once Aziraphale’s glass is also full – more generously so than the other patrons, Crowley notices, because for all of the goodness that’s in Aziraphale there’s also a deliciously shameful amount of hedonism.

Aziraphale continues to comment on the quality of the food, the wine, and Crowley doesn’t hear a word because his foot is getting higher and higher, closer and closer to where Crowley’s trousers have become very tight.

“What were you thinking for dessert, dear?” Aziraphale says, suspiciously casual. “Something – creamy, perhaps?”

Crowley digs his fingernails into his palm. “You’re horrible.”

Aziraphale grins. “Is that a complaint, dear?” His toes are so close to where Crowley both wants and can’t stand them to be.

“Yes –” Crowley starts, then has to bite his lip instead because Aziraphale’s tracing the line of his erection.

“What was that, Crowley?” Aziraphale smiles. It’s infuriating. “I don’t believe I heard you.”

“Ngh,” Crowley clarifies, and slouches in his chair to ensure that absolutely nothing untoward is visible above the tablecloth.

For another minute, Aziraphale continues rubbing infuriatingly even strokes over the clothed shaft of Crowley’s cock, briefly moving upward now and again to graze over where he’s steadily leaking precome in his briefs – all the while continuing to eat. Crowley, meanwhile, has left his plate untouched since Aziraphale began teasing him.

After Aziraphale is all but done with his dinner, and Crowley is all but about to drag him into the bathroom, Aziraphale pats his stomach. “I think I’m about ready to call for dessert.”

Crowley blinks. “Oh, ah, yes,” he agrees, though a bit surprised. He’d thought Aziraphale might be impatient to leave, but from the glint in his eyes Crowley realizes his plans are quite a bit different.

“Wave him down and pick us something, if you would, dear.” Aziraphale finishes his last bite of penne. As Crowley’s getting the waiter’s attention, he adds, “And feel free to undo your trousers.”

Crowley chokes on nothing just in time for the waiter to get to them. “Are you alright, sir?” The man asks, and Crowley waves in weak affirmation, regaining his breath enough to order one crème brulee.

“Excellent choice,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley nods, swallows, then slowly reaches for the top button of his trousers.

“Even better,” Aziraphale gives him a little room to work. “You really are spoiling me tonight.”

Crowley finally gets his button undone and zipper pulled down despite his shaking fingers. “Always.”

Aziraphale rewards him with the feeling of silk over his now-exposed cockhead, and it takes every ounce of Crowley’s control to keep from moaning aloud or coming too early. It’s barely any stimulation and yet too much, and the fact that they’re in the middle of the Ritz makes it even more thrilling.

It feels like no time has passed before the waiter arrives with Aziraphale’s dessert. To Crowley’s dismay, Aziraphale pulls his foot back the second he cracks the caramelized surface of his crème brulee. Crowley can’t help the whine that escapes him, and Aziraphale smirks around his spoon.

“Something the matter?”

Crowley scowls. “Tease.”

“Patience is a virtue.”

“I’m a demon. I don’t have virtues.”

“Oh, well.” Aziraphale scoops up a generous portion of the custard, then holds it out. “You really should have a bite, dear, it tastes divine.”

Crowley glares at him. He makes sure to keep eye contact with Aziraphale as he leans forward to wrap his lips around the spoon, relishing in how he can see those eyes go dark.

“Good,” Aziraphale murmurs, voice lower than before. Crowley has an idea.

He reaches forward and dips his finger into the dish, getting it coated in custard before extracting it. Aziraphale looks for a moment as if he might protest before Crowley holds his finger up to Aziraphale’s lips.

“Oh.” Now Aziraphale is the flustered one, Crowley notes with smug satisfaction – a short-lived feeling; his composure flees him the moment Aziraphale takes his finger into his mouth.

Never before has Crowley been more thankful for their ability to divert human attention. Especially so when Aziraphale pulls off his finger with a wet pop, smiles, then ducks under the table without warning.

Crowley can’t breathe.

No sooner does he feel the first hot puff of breath on his cock does the waiter decide _now_ is the best time to come and ask if they’d like the check. Crowley nods, declines his offer to take the crème brulee away, and tries his best to look like a normal person who isn’t getting his dick sucked by a literal angel. He’s never been much of an actor, but he thinks he pulls it off, despite the things Aziraphale’s doing with his tongue.

It’s only been a minute, but Crowley’s already right on the edge. He tightens his fingers in Aziraphale’s wild curls, trying to warn him before he spills into his mouth. Aziraphale hums, the vibration heavenly around Crowley’s cock, and Crowley bites his lip hard to keep from crying out as he comes.

God, what a mess he must look.

Aziraphale lingers afterwards, lapping and sucking so as not to miss a single drop, then a little extra because he’s evil and knows how sensitive Crowley is. He’s also kind, though, carefully tucking Crowley back into his pants and doing his trousers up.

When he finally re-emerges from under the table – again, at a moment where all of the other diners just so happen to be looking elsewhere – his hair is mussed and his cheeks are red, and that ineffable smile of his seems permanently fixed on his face.

“Fuck,” Crowley sighs, and reaches for Aziraphale’s hand.

“I think that went rather well,” Aziraphale says, looking quite satisfied with himself. “Shall we continue the night at yours, or at mine?”

Crowley isn’t sure he’ll be able to survive the rest of eternity, but he’s definitely looking forward to trying.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> crowley tries to do the same thing a week later and accidentally kicks aziraphale in the nuts. he's beauty, he's grace.


End file.
